Wiener Beiträge zur deutschen und englischen Philologie, Volumes 1-3

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W. Braumüller., 1886 - English philology
 

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Page 132 - My lute, awake, perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun, And when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done.
Page 27 - Musae, 475 quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore, accipiant, caelique vias et sidera monstrent, defectus solis varios lunaeque labores, unde tremor terris, qua vi maria alta tumescant obicibus ruptis rursusque in se ipsa residant, 480 quid tantum Oceano properent se tinguere soles hiberni, vel quae tardis mora noctibus obstet...
Page 32 - OUT of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
Page 1 - Henry, Earle of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyal, betweene whom I finde very litle difference, I repute them (as before) for the two chief lanternes of light to all others that have since employed their pennes upon English poesie.
Page 32 - Lord, who shall stand it ? For with thee there is merciful forgiveness, and by reason of thy law I have waited for thee, O Lord.
Page 132 - The woful days so full of pain, The weary night all spent in vain, The labour lost for so small gain, To write them all it will not be ; But ha ! ha! ha! full well is me, For I am now at liberty.
Page 32 - FROM depth of sin, and from a deep despair, From depth of death, from depth of heart's sorrow, From this deep cave, of darkness deep repair, Thee have I called, O Lord, to be my borrow. Thou in my voice, O Lord, perceive and hear My heart, my hope, my plaint, my overthrow, My will to rise: and let by grant appear, That to my voice thine ears do well...
Page 1 - Petrarch, they greatly pollished our rude and homely maner of vulgar Poesie, from that it had bene before...
Page 32 - Lord, if thou do observe what men offend And put thy native mercy in restraint, If just exaction demand recompense, Who may endure, O Lord? Who shall not faint At such account?
Page 16 - This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk, And in foul weather at my book to sit, In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk. No man doth mark whereso I ride or go. In lusty leas at liberty I walk, And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe, Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.

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